


And the Path is Dark

by kitkatkat



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-07 09:24:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3169709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitkatkat/pseuds/kitkatkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Both the acts of greatness and the unseen moments in between are what make the Inquisition the force that it is.<br/>These are the events of Inquisition, as seen by the Inquisitor and the Commander.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cullen I

**I.**

**_All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands_ ,**  
 _**From the lowest slaves** _  
_**To the highest**_ **kings.**  

* * *

 

His world has changed.

Four years ago it was simple enough, if still dangerous and flawed. Cullen knew truths: mages were (for the most part) bad, templars were (for the most part) good, and the Maker loved his people. Then the Chantry in Kirkwall was destroyed and Meredith went mad. The world seemed to follow suit, the fragile peace between mages and templars shattering to pieces. After three long years of fighting in the streets and barely keeping the city from falling to bits, Cassandra Pentaghast had shown up demanding the Champion of Kirkwall be given to her.

Cullen had endured interview after interview that the Seeker demanded, answering each and every of her questions as best he could.  _Why did you let Hawke go? Where is she now?_  Somehow between the questioning and his attempts to return order to the city he had earned her respect. Before leaving the city she gave him an impossible offer: the position of Commander, not of the templars, but of Divine Justinia's personal holy army. An Inquisition was to be called. He had thought the offer mad, crazed. He clearly remembers laughing directly in Cassandra's face before he realized she was serious, his sides aching with each heaving laugh.

Cassandra hadn't taken that very well.

He remembers refusing, calling the very idea of an Inquisition barmy. But then Sister Nightingale had spoken up from the shadows. She reminded him of Meredith, of the injustices he had seen borne by both mages and templars. She mentioned the fighting, the senseless killing, that the whole world seemed mired in. And if he could make a difference, which he  _could_  as part of the Inquisition, then wasn't it his Maker-given duty to do so?

Cullen had doubted himself for a second, blinked, and found himself in control of an imaginary army that grew less imaginary by the day. When the Conclave exploded, when the sky ripped open, those remaining turned to him and gave their swords to his command unquestioningly. Which put him in the uncomfortable position of being a commander fighting a losing war.

A distant shriek echoes off the mountains as the sky shudders around the Breach and the Veil tears even more. Green light spill from the maelstrom of magic as the hole in the world widens. Cullen watches it, the fear it invokes a pale shadow to what had been. In the two days since the Conclave exploded the Breach has widened several times. The first time was nearly as panic-inducing as the initial explosion. Demons rained from the sky, and the panic was soon forgotten in desperate battle. The mages who had been in Haven during the explosion made their first attempt to close the Breach. The second widening was met with despair: would they ever manage to close the tear? More attempts were made to seal the Breach; all failed. The third was met with grim fear. The fourth and onwards met only with a fatalistic acceptance.

The sound of horse hooves clattering across stones interrupts his reverie. "Commander," Cassandra calls to him, her voice echoing through the yard. Her mount trots down the path towards him, something dangerous glinting in her eyes, her face a storm of fury. Anticipation clutches in his gut; Cassandra wouldn't look so murderous if they hadn't found something.

"What is it? Did the scouts find something at the Temple?"

A kind of vicious glee is obvious in her faint smile. "Yes, better than  _something_. They found  _someone_." She jerks her head back in the direction of Haven before spinning on mount around, pointing it back towards Haven. "Come. You'll want to see them. And we could use your opinion on the prisoner." A thousand questions spring to his tongue _-who is the prisoner? Where did they come from? What have they said?-_  but Cassandra has already put her heels to the horse and is halfway down the path to Haven before he can begin to voice them. Cullen watches her ride away with a sigh before sending a runner to search for his second in command.

* * *

 Cassandra meets Cullen in the yard, outside the Chantry two hours later. She's been waiting for him, if her crossed arms and impatiently tapping foot are any indication. She jerks her chin up in acknowledgement and spins on her heel to walk into the Chantry before he's even dismounted. Cullen beats down the irritation as effectively as he can. They have a prisoner; his dislike of Cassandra's rather curt social skills has no place here. For that matter, neither does the rage welling up in him, burning all his rationality from within. Anger is all well and good, but not if it interferes with what must be done. And killing their prisoner when they need information will certainly  _not_  accomplish their goals.

Cullen breathes deeply, letting the crisp mountain air cool him, ground him. Josephine and Leliana will have their hands full just trying to contain Cassandra; he can't expect them to have to handle him as well. Almost two decades of templar training come in handy at times like these, giving him the clarity and purpose of mind needed to select negative emotions and shut them away behind locked doors. He'll open those doors later but for now, he is calm.

He allows himself a single bitter thought as he crosses the threshold of the Chantry.  _Cassandra should be able to keep herself calm, she's a Maker-blessed Seeker!_  But is seems she abandoned more than her loyalty to the Order when she cut ties.

A Chanter gestures to a door off to the side of the hall as he enters, not once pausing her recitation of the Chant of Light.  _Those who oppose thee, Shall know the wrath of heaven._  Cullen scoffs with dark amusement at the appropriateness of the verse. He's never personally been a big fan of the wrathful declarations of the Canticles of Andraste, but they do seem fitting for his current mood. A vague feeling of unease, the sense of something wrong, scampers up and down his spine as he approaches the door. Cullen opens the iron-bound door to the cellars where the town's few holding cells are found.

A  _very_ loud and  _very_  heated argument is happening in the holding cells. The words, and the uneasy feeling, become more distinct as he descends the stone steps. "We should just kill her," Advocation of violence and Nevarran accent. Cassandra. "Perhaps that will close the Breach."

"We have no way of knowing that!" That voice is less familiar to him, but Cullen still recognizes the faint accent and understated firmness of the Solas's voice. The elf approached them a mere two days after the Breach appeared in the sky, offering help. Cullen and Cassandra had been… less than pleased, but Leliana and Josephine were quick to convince them they needed all the help they could get. Even if it came from a shifty elven apostate with impossibly convenient timing. "Her knowledge, her mark, may contain the secrets to closing the Breach! You would just throw that away by  _murdering_  her?!"

"It would be justice for what she's done!" Cullen walks around the corner to see Cassandra and the elf, standing toe to toe. A grudging respect for the elf starts to grow. Although Cassandra stands over him by several inches and has likely twice the muscle mass, Solas glares right back at her, lips twisted into a disapproving frown. He maintains an impressive façade of calm, but Cullen notices his fingers twitching as if itching to toss a few spells her way.

Josephine, ever the voice of reason, steps forward. "Calm down, the both of you. Cassandra, we will have no way of knowing what her role in all of this has been until she wakes up."

" _If_  she wakes up," Solas interrupts, shaking his head as he steps away from Cassandra and her gauntleted fists. "I think it quite unlikely that she ever will."

"Explain," Cullen steps from the shadowed steps into the candlelight, making his presence known. Leliana appears at his side. It's downright unnerving, how she seems to disappear and reappear without even a whisper. Though it's not as if he would ever let her know that; she's quietly smug enough already. She would be worse if she knew that the big-bad templar found her… disconcerting.

Leliana cuts off Solas as he begins to speak. "Perhaps Commander Cullen can take a look at our prisoner first. That way his impressions are not colored by ours." Leliana does not wait for a response before leading Cullen over to a cell, a slight figure slumped on the stone barely visible in the flickering candlelight.

"We had her cuffed and hobbled. If she awakes, she shouldn't be able to do any damage," Leliana explains as she unlocks the door. "However, there is something of note on her left hand which could prove to be dangerous. Be cautious."

The strange feeling grows in intensity as he approaches the slumped figure. When his hand makes contact with her shoulder it  _screams_  at him so loudly that he trips over himself to get away, falling on his ass as she scrambles backwards. "Maker's breath, what  _is_  that thing?!" The prisoner feels like the rifts that have been popping up ever since the Breach opened. _She feels… wrong. Otherworldly. Like… like demons do. No, that's not quite right. Demons feel distinctly malevolent, twisted. This just feels… wild._  Cullen swallows the wariness that is swiftly threatening to turn to fear and reaches out to touch the prisoner again. This time there is no sudden scream from his instincts, only the persistent sense of wrongness.

A slight push is all it takes to roll the prisoner on to her back allowing him to see the face of the accused. There are a number of things that surprise him. The first are the ears, poking out of her tangled mess of dirt-streaked, blond hair. Elven. Odd, considering the Conclave was a meeting between two largely human groups. This first surprise is confounded further by the markings stamped across her forehead, cheeks, even chin. Dalish. The Dalish were certainly  _not_  invited to the Conclave.

Cullen quickly scans the rest of her, taking in her torn clothing with little interest. It appears no different than any other clothing. In the name of thoroughness he strains his templar-senses past the thrumming  _wrong_  and searches for other traces of magic. Solas is a beacon of spells woven into staff and robes alike. Much to Cullen's surprise and growing dread, there is a similar echo coming from the clothing of the prisoner.  _Enchanted_.

He spares half a second for a quick prayer to the Maker that he is mistaken before grabbing the prisoner's right wrist. He brings it into the torchlight, and sure enough, finds burns streaking her fingertips and palm. Cullen has seen their like plenty of times on overeager apprentices practicing past bedtime and on desperate apostates. On those who either had not the will or not the time to reach for their staves before summoning fire directly from their hands. "Mage." Cullen spits the word out with every ounce of venom it deserves. He drops the prisoner's limp wrist as if the magic in the elf could somehow seep into him, corrupt him.  _Of course_  she's a mage. Why would she be anything else? The likelihood of her innocence diminishes with each observation he makes. His cautious curiosity begins to turn back to his familiar anger. His self control weakens, the door locking away his rage creaks, threatening to break open.

The sense of wrongness flares a scant moment before a flash of green light erupts from the prisoner's hand and her body convulses, throwing eerie shadows as the warped song of the rifts echoes off the stones of the cellar. It lasts barely a heartbeat before it fades away. Solas runs into the cell and grabs the prisoner's hands, turning them palm-up. On her left palm green glows along the lines of her hand. As he watches it fades, until it is barely noticeable at all. Cullen remains frozen as Solas fusses, muttering unfamiliar incantations to himself.  _What in the world was that?! Can she… open a passage to the Fade? If so… this elf definitely opened the Breach!_  A wave of unassailable certainty crashes over him.  _This is the monster!_  The door holding his rage crashes open and Cullen scrambles to his feet, fumbling for his sword. His draw is halted by Solas's upraised hand.

"It is as I thought," Solas's tone is not angry, or fearful. Instead it sounds… sorrowful?  _Why would the mage be sad about this?_ Cullen's suspicions begin to spread, the shadow of his anger at the prisoner coming to fall on Solas as well. "The mark is growing in time with the Breach. She will be consumed by the Fade if this continues much longer."

"Consumed by the Fade?" Cullen barely manages to bite out the words and drop the hilt of his sword. He takes deep breaths, trying to calm his anger,  _we need information, we need information_ , but there is no cool mountain air to be found in this dank cellar, and it makes him feel stifled instead of free.

"Yes," Solas does not rise from the floor of the cell. He instead arranges her form into a more comfortable position, pushes the prisoner's hair out of her face.  _Blood-streaked hair, not just dirt-streaked_ , Cullen notices absently. "I believe that when the Breach opened, this woman was somehow drawn into the Fade physically. She then must have managed to find, or open, a rift in order to leave it."

Lines of the Chant dance in his memory.  _You have brought Sin to Heaven,_ _And doom upon all the world._ There aren't words for the kind of dread that floods Cullen now. "Physical. Fade." Fear chokes his words. A couple of deep breaths later he attempts a complete sentence. "Like the magisters. Like the Chant. Impossible."

Leliana's hand on his shoulder draws his attention, pulls him away from the prisoner and out of the cell. "We don't have the luxury of ignoring a possibility just because it's unpleasant." Her voice is tight, strained, and a strange sense of relief washes over him as he realizes he isn't the only one terrified by this prospect. "If anything, the actions of the magisters in the Chant of Light proves that traveling to the Fade  _is_  possible, if not without dire consequences. We have to explore the option that the prisoner is somehow able to manipulate the tears in the Veil." She sends a glare Cassandra's way. "Which is why it would be foolish to kill her. She may be able to repair them. Stop the Breach from growing, or even close it entirely. It doesn't matter what she did in the past, if she can repair what is going on now. We cannot afford to lose her." This sounds of an old argument. One that, judging by Cassandra's dismissive scoff and Leliana's responding eyeroll, they are both tired of repeating.

The weight of the situation presses down on Cullen's shoulders and he sinks to the floor, his back against a pillar and his face in his gauntlets.  _Breathe._  Anger locked away.  _Breathe._  Fear calmed.  _Breathe._  Desperation quieted.  _Breathe._  Hopelessness traded for purpose. Cullen raises his head, meeting the eyes of each of his companions. "What do we know about the prisoner?"

Josephine looks down at the ever-present writing board in her hands, checking her notes. "Leliana was able to dig up a little about our… guest." Cullen represses a grimace at her choice of words. Josephine always insists on being pleasant; she shuns words such as "prisoner," even if it dilutes the truth of the matter. Then again, she's a politician. Diluted truth is her bread and water. "As you can clearly see, she is a Dalish mage. No one seems to have known her personally. One pilgrim who was in Haven at the time of the explosion claims that there was a Dalish elf among the mercenary band hired to accompany her people to Haven. There were two grand clerics in this party, so they hired on a fairly large number, most of them independent bodyguards. The pilgrim said she wasn't certain where the mercenary came from, just that they picked her up just north of Highever and that the mercenary spoke with something like a Free Marcher accent. She guessed Starkhaven."

 _What would a Marcher elf be doing in southern Ferelden?_ "Are we certain the pilgrim was speaking of the correct elf?"

Leliana answers for Josephine. "The description she provided of the elven mercenary matched our prisoner perfectly, down to the placement of her tattoos."

Josephine shuffles papers around on her board, searching for a different set of notes. "We also have begun seeking her motive for being here. Dalish elves rarely leave their clans, so we considered the possibility of the elf being on an errand for her Keeper. Of the clans that wander the Free Marches, we've narrowed down her likely clan to one of three. The most likely by far, however, is the Lavellan clan. Their Keeper has attempted to make amiable contact with humans several times. Of all the clans in the area, they are the only ones who show any true interest in humans." Josephine raps her fingers against the board, biting the side of her mouth with uncertainty. "It is… possible that the clan wished to know firsthand what transpired at the Conclave, and thus sent an agent."

 _Great. Just great. More intrigue._  Cullen groans internally. "So, it's possible that the prisoner was not independent, but rather working with the Dalish."

Josephine stops tapping on her board long enough to scribble a quick note. "Considering mages amongst the Dalish are almost exclusively either Keepers or Keeper apprentices… It's more than possible. It's likely."

"Then the Dalish could be behind the opening of the Breach." Cullen says the words, but he doesn't believe them, not really. He doubts most Dalish know enough about humans to even know that the Divine existed. Still, all avenues must be explored.

Leliana steps forward. "I wouldn't say that. No. I doubt their interest in human affairs goes beyond simply staying updated on events. If anything, I believe our prisoner was simply lucky. Or unlucky, if you prefer. Perhaps she is even being used as a scapegoat for the true villain. Maker knows most people are all too eager to blame an elf when things go awry."

Cassandra scoffs, and Leliana's blue eyes snap to her. "You doubt this?"

"It is all too convenient for the elf to be a mere observer. Appearing at the Temple can be no mere coincidence."

Leliana nodds. "Exactly. Think of it: what is the best way to frame someone? Make sure they are found at the scene of the crime. Make it so very obvious that they  _must_  be involved, and people will look no further. I do not believe the situation is as simple as you make it out to be, Cassandra." Leliana's voice raises, as if preparing for Cassandra's inevitable disagreement. "It's incredibly unlikely that the rift would open just as our soldiers were patrolling the area, as if delivering her directly to them. And let us not forget that the scouts are claiming they saw a figure behind our prisoner within the Fade."

 _A figure? Another conspirator?_ "What? Explain."

Leliana's response is more hesitant, uncertain."The scouts are claiming they saw a figure behind the prisoner as she tumbled out of the rift. A woman, glowing with golden light. We've kept it quiet for now, until we know more."

Cullen can make half a dozen guesses as to what the figure may have been, but he knows less of the Fade than Solas. "What was it? he asks the mage.

"I am uncertain." The way his fingers clench into fists declare how difficult it is for him to admit that. "It could have been anything. A trick of the light, a trick of the mind. Or perhaps a spirit of the Fade."

Leliana's next words are hushed with something very close to reverence. "One of the scouts is claiming it was the figure of Andraste herself, guiding the prisoner through the Fade."

 _Andraste._  Awe and understanding erupt within him.  _A glowing, golden woman._  He begins to understand Leliana's adamant defense of the prisoner. "You think the prisoner was guided by Andraste."

Leliana looks down, as if embarrassed by her admission. "I know it sounds impossible, but I think it's a possibility we shouldn't ignore. It could be true, it could not be. Either way, we'll never know if she doesn't waken."

Silence reigns over the damp cellar. Cassandra is stunned into quiet for the first time Cullen has seen since the sky opened up, Solas, Leliana and Josephine lost in thought. Cullen feels numb, empty after having all the dark feelings within burned away by awe and surprise. The few thoughts left to him rattle around his skull.  _Impossible to survive the explosion. Divine intervention. Blessed by Andraste._  With a groan, a creak of leather straps and a clatter of armor Cullen picks himself up off the floor and voices one final question.

"What do we do now?"

Its Josephine who eventually provides an answer. "For now? We do as we have been doing. We try to contain the Breach, we build alliances and look for a solution. All that has changed is that we are now waiting for her to wake up as well."

Another pause, another heavy silence. Josephine crumbles to the pressure of it first. "Well, then. If that is all, I must be going. A great many nobles have been demanding answers. I have dozens of letters to answer."

Cullen takes advantage of the opportunity. "And I should be getting back to the valley. Our plans for the valley's defense need revising." He spares only a single glance over his shoulder as he climbs the stairs to see the three remaining staring at the body of the prisoner, with three different kinds of hope. He shakes off the urge to go back down the steps, to join his companions in their vigil. He can do nothing just sitting there, but he can do  _something_  in the valley. He can fight, defend from the encroaching waves of demons. Maybe even save a few lives. He resolves to drive this whole situation from his mind, to focus his attention where it is needed. That protection, that  _duty_  will become his world.

Three days later his world changes again.


	2. Varric I

**II.   Varric**

_**Those who bring harm** _

_**Without provocation to the least of His children** _

_**Are hated and accursed by the Maker.** _

* * *

 

Varric knows something is up.

Well, other than the hole in the very sky, of course. It's absolutely remarkable how something so impossible can become ordinary after a few days of constant screaming and killing demons. No, the sky doesn't interest him. What interests him is the way everyone except him seems to be holding their breaths.

Pentaghast has been beyond tense these past few days. Something has had her attention so firmly that  _nothing_  he does seems to annoy her. And he's tried. Maker, how he's tried. Singing bawdy tavern songs outside her door while she naps, making thinly veiled allusions to her frozen heart, inquiring after the health of the stick up her ass. Instead of snapping at him and threatening to throw him in the stocks, as he has come to expect and, indeed, appreciate as part of his daily routine, she had simply grunted at him and brushed by him. Which practically screamed there was something rotten in the state of Haven.

That Nightingale lady and the Antivan were acting equally strangely. They redhead had always been, well,  _off,_ but the Antivan had previously had a calm that seemed nigh unshakable _._  Now the two were constantly cloistered behind closed doors, and spent their time around the camp whispering to one another. If he didn't know any better, he would have thought they were fooling around, but he had it on good authority that that ship had already come and sailed away.

The final tile in this mosaic of strange was the apostate mage. He had oh-so conveniently been in the mountains when the temple went "boom" and appeared in Haven to help. He also just so happened to be an expert on the Fade and all things in it. What crazy, random happenstance! Cassandra was acting even more stupid than usual when she allowed him to stay.  _Could the cryptic elf with impossible knowledge possibly be behind the impossible events going on? Nah, of course not. That would make far too much sense._ Varric is, of course, not supposed to know this Solas guy has been doing something for Cassandra. Fortunately for Varric, Cassandra greatly overestimates the thickness of the walls and greatly underestimates Varric's determination to sniff out things she wants to keep from him. However, despite all his efforts, she and the other leaders of the motley mess of survivors had managed to keep a few things from him. Namely, whatever they had hidden in the basement of the Chantry.

If the commander, Cullen, had been around Varric may have been able to weasel some hints out of the man. He had learned quite a bit about the former-templar over a few "friendly drinks" back in Kirkwall, before the Seeker took an interest in them. He was entirely incapable of lying and had the useful habit of stuttering when surprised or put on edge. Unfortunately, he had come running out of the Chantry three days previous as if someone had set fire to his big furry cloak and had been hiding at the forward camps since then. Varric knew it was unreasonable to think the man was hiding from him, but considering the few times he had managed the trek down there only to find the Commander off somewhere on "important business…" Well, it made a man wonder.

Varric _can_ guess that whatever they're hiding has something to do with the Breach. From their few conversations Varric has gathered that Solas disdains the Chantry and everything Andrastian. Yet, the elf has been spending every waking moment in the building, looking completely drained every time he emerges. Maybe it's some form of magical artifact that requires the apostate's suspicious expertise.

There  _have_  been a few quiet whispers amongst the scouts that Varric's hired ears have picked up. His contact had overheard a group of scouts muttering amongst themselves. They had said something about a prisoner being recovered, possibly from the Temple of Sacred Ashes. His contact hadn't been able to catch any more of their conversation before a messenger called them away on something or other. The group had been sent on a long-range scouting mission to the south the very next morning. Which was  _very_ suspicious, but didn't explain why Solas would be needed to interrogate a prisoner. Besides, no additional meals were being delivered to the Chantry (he had to bribe several kitchen helpers more than he would have liked to check), so that ruled out the possibility of some prisoner being held in the basement. Unless, of course, they were denying the prisoner meals…

Bah! The situation is all such a tangled mess of maybes and could-bes. And now, in the midst of fighting demons with two-foot-long claws for hands, is not the best time to be examining ideas.

The fighting doesn't calm Varric like it should, like it had back in Kirkwall. The  _flow_  that there had always been alongside Hawke is gone. Yeah, the bald elf is a plenty good mage, but he doesn't laugh when an enemy falls like Hawke did. He doesn't call out marks for Varric to pick off. He doesn't stab demons with his staff just as often as he casts spells.

" _Are you sure that's a good idea, Hawke?"_

" _What?" she pauses, looks up at Varric from across his table at the Hanged Man. She has a giant knife, halfway to being a sword, on the table next to her staff and is struggling to wrap a leather tie around the both of the weapons to hold the two together. He gestures at the mess of steel and wood, asking a question without having to say anything. She's indignant. "Having a staby bit on the end of this thing makes it easier to defend when something gets too close."_

" _I would think with the number of times you drop that thing on your foot you would avoid putting sharp things on it." The tenuous knot holding the hilt of the knife to the bottom of the staff falls apart. Hawke, unfazed, picks up the knife to try again. She always was one to take the skull-versus-wall approach to problems._

" _Think again, my furry friend," Hawke says with a grin, gesturing at his copious chest hair with the knife. "I'm as graceful as a fucking swan with a spear. This will be just like one. Just… backwards. And terribly off balance."_

Battle after Hawke is silent except for cries of pain and grunts of effort. There's no teasing, no taunts, no laughter. Varric feels a pang of something suspiciously like loneliness  _which he really doesn't need right now!_ before making a pin-cushion out of a shade.

The unwelcome influx of memories is thankfully interrupted by the arrival of two more people. Varric is forced to reevaluate his prisoner theory the moment the unfamiliar elf hops down into the fray and starts firing off spells. He doesn't miss that Cassandra is sticking to her side like a burr, cutting glances at her that can't decide if they're glares or not, or that Solas actually  _stops_  fighting to stare for a moment. Whoever the mage is, she's important. And she's likely what's been hiding in the Chantry basement.  _There will be time for introductions and prying questions later_ , Varric assures himself, and instead focuses on keeping the demons from making mincemeat of the mysterious new arrival.

When the last of the demons collapses to the ground with the most discomforting groan the rift above their heads begins to screech and sing. The shape changes, turning from sharp, jagged crystals of  _elsewhere_  to ribbons that threaten to coalesce into a door. Varric has seen this several times. Eventually the ribbons will weave together and make a portal large enough for the monsters to slip through yet again. Luckily, they have almost an hour to get clear before it happens again. Varric turns towards the pile of boards blocking the way down towards the forward camps,  _I'm either going to have to clamber over that thing or crawl under. It's so damned undignified being a dwarf here. No one makes anything the right size,_ but Solas yelling something over the screaming of the rift makes him turn back.

Solas grabs the other elf's wrist,  _and judging by that glare she does NOT like that, nonono,_  and forces her hand up and towards the rift. Light erupts from the woman's palm, streaming towards the rift and twining with the ribbons coming out of the tear in the world. The light spreads from her palm, spreading under her skin and lighting up each vein and artery. Varric is reminded of the way Fenris's marks would glow, how they would radiate something that was like nothing else. This, this is even more wild. More, well,  _magical_.

With a gut-wrenching scream the elf collapses to her knees and the rift shatters. Varric flinches away from the burst of light and sound, hiding his face in his elbow. When the ringing in his ears finally fades he looks over at the thin figure struggling to her feet, Solas hovering at her side like a particularly worried bird.  _Mother hen, I think the phrase is._ But who cares about Solas, the newcomer closed the rift. Closed. The. Rift. And lived!

_This is the stuff of_ _ **legends**_. His fingers itch to pick up a pen, to record this very moment for the world. Of course, the heroine slumped over in the snow will have to be changed. He twists the situation with his imagination, crafting it into a better story.  _The elf's pale, golden hair caught up in the breeze, standing tall with the faintest bit of haughtiness on her features and blood splattered across her face in the most_ _ **badass**_ _of ways. She's every inch the hero._  However, there are a few things his imagination can't top: the way the rift's dying shriek echoes off the surrounding cliffs; the way she had leapt into battle with zero hesitation. The elf is even fucking  _glowing!_   _Even Hawke never managed to_ _ **glow**_ _._

There's no way in hell Cassandra is going to keep him out of this. Whatever this is. And the best way to do that would be to go over her head, ingratiate himself to the hero herself. He tugs at the cuffs of his sleeves, straightening his coat before putting on his best charming-knave-swagger and strolling up to her.

"I don't know how the hell you managed that, but I'm glad you came along." He sticks out a hand, offering the shake. "Varric Tethras. Rogue, storyteller, and occasionally, unwelcome tagalong." He drops a condescending wink for Cassandra and relishes in the grimace she doesn't even bother to stamp down.  _Ah. There's the Seeker I know and despise._

The woman's hair covers her eyes, but Varric can practically feel her stare burning holes into his palm. He catches a glimpse of ink on chin through the wave of hair and feels like an idiot.  _Dalish. Of course. She has no idea what a handshake is._  He remembers it took over an hour of trying to explain to Merril why anyone would want to hold a stranger's hand. Varric lets the hand fall to his side and notices the way the elf's shoulders relax a slight bit. After two more deep breaths the elf manages to choke out a greeting, if one can call it that. "Nice crossbow you have there."

Varric smiles in approval.  _This newcomer may just be an alright sort, if she can spot how special Bianca is._  He begins to wax poetic about the weapon, but the woman has already turned towards Solas, her stare directed at him now. Varric feels a bit miffed, he's the one talking here, but forgives her when she starts asking the questions he wants the answers to.

"What did you do?" The elf is quiet, but Varric can still hear well enough. The accusation behind her words doesn't sound dangerous when masked with the lilting tone to her voice, reminiscent of Merril's rounded words.

" _I_  did nothing. The credit is yours." Solas replies with a bit of a smile, still staring at her like she's some kind of miracle.  _And she is_ , Varric figures.  _If she can close the rifts, she's something truly special._

The woman pauses long enough that Solas begins to fidget. She hasn't moved her head at all, so Varric guesses she's staring a hole in Solas's big, bald head. "You mean the mark did this," she manages finally. The burr on her pronunciation of her rs betrays an association with Starkhaven. "I know I have never been able to do this before."

Solas simply shrugs. "Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky placed that mark upon your hand. I theorized the mark may be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach's wake. And it seems I was correct."

_That_  catches Cassandra's attention. She almost smiles as she takes her place by the newcomer's side. Cassandra, smiling.  _That just ain't right._  "Meaning it could also close the Breach itself."

Solas seems reluctant to give an answer, but he gives one anyway. "Possibly." He glances at Cassandra just long enough to deliver the one word before looking back to the woman. More silence. More staring.  _Well, this is awkward._

"Just who are you, anyway?" the elf asks Solas, her tone abrupt.  _Not one for pleasantries, is she?_  Varric stifles a snort at the way Solas startles.

"My name is Solas." He offers a crooked smile. Varric curses the angle he's at and his inability to see the elf's face. He's sure her expression is priceless. "I am pleased to see you still live."

Cassandra leans towards the elf to mutter, no doubt trying to keep Varric from overhearing. Foolish Seeker, Tethrases have notoriously keen ears. "He kept the mark from spreading as you slept."

The newcomer makes no effort to keep her words secret, and Varric likes her even more for it. "You seem to know a great deal about it all." Her tone is careful, purposefully light, but it doesn't change the underlying message. She's suspicious. Smart.

Cassandra speaks up, abandoning her whispers. "Like you, Solas is an apostate."

"Technically, all mages are now apostates, Cassandra." Solas chastises. A distant scream echoes over the frozen river beside him, and Varric is familiar enough with rifts opening to recognize the sound. He tunes out Solas's next words  _blahblah walking the Fade blahblah strange magic blahblah. Good to know_ in favor of climbing over the pile of wood to get a better look down the river. He can sees the ghostly form of a wraith drift around the river bend. They're going to have a fight on their hands if they're going toward the forward camps. And it would only be proper for him to offer assistance. _Yep, getting to see the hero in action is just a nice side benefit. I'm so selfless._

"Hey!" Varric calls over his shoulder, keeping an eye on the demons drifting over the ice. "You guys may want to get a move on before more demons show up. They  _are_  raining from the sky, you know."

"We must get to the forward camp quickly," Cassandra says from somewhere behind him. Footsteps crunch the snow underfoot.

"Whatever you say." Varric starts his way down the slope. A shade stands in the middle of the river a couple hundred yards away. It hasn't noticed him.

"What? Where are you going!" Cassandra's voice raises and her Nevarran accent gets thicker with each word. "You aren't coming with us!"

"Yes, I am. You need my help to get to the camps, don't deny it." Varric unslings Bianca, cranks back the string, and loads a bolt.

"No! No, I demand you turn around and go back to Haven. I command it!"

"Bite me," Varric calls back as he lines up his shot, grinning to himself.

_This is going to be one hell of an adventure._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading Chapter 2 of And the Path is Dark. As always, feedback is welcome! If you think of a way to improve the chapter or my writing in general, please don't hesitate to point it out!
> 
> I debated on whether or not to publish this chapter. It doesn't advance the story much at all, but writing Varric's perspective was a ton of fun. I wanted to explore his reaction to the whole situation a bit.
> 
> As you can tell, I've changed around some events. Several things about the opening didn't make sense to me, such as everyone in Haven knowing who you are, and that you tumbled out of a rift. That seems like the kind of information the advisers, Leliana in particular, would be desperate to keep quiet. Knowing that the Divine's supposed murderer lives seems like the kind of thing that could start a riot. When the whole "coming out of the Fade itself" bit is added in, it makes the situation only more volatile. I think the advisers (or at least my interpretation of them) would have tried to keep your existence as quiet as they could, at least until you woke up.
> 
> Following that line of thought, Varric wouldn't know who you are. Cassandra is the only one of the advisers who has reason to talk to him, and she certainly wouldn't tell him, considering their antagonistic relationship. That said, Varric has his own spy network and loves to piss off Cassandra, so he would have dug into it a bit, if only just to spite Cassandra, and thus would have some idea of what's going on. Hence this chapter.
> 
> I've also taken some rights with the dialogue in order to make the scene flow correctly and fit my interpretation of characters.
> 
> Final note: this story is also being published on fanfiction.net. Currently the ff.net version is a few chapters ahead of this one, since I only recently got an AO3 invite. I'll be updating this version 1 chapter a day until it catches up to the ff.net one, then they'll be updated simultaneously.


	3. Lavellan I

**III.    Lavellan**

_**Maker, my enemies are abundant.** _

_**Many are those who rise up against me.** _

* * *

 

_I really, really, hate the snow._  Clumps of the stuff had gotten into the top of her boots when she fell over earlier, and now it's thawing. The water creeps down her ankles and pools around her heels, chilling her feet to the point of being unfeeling.  _I swear, the moment I get out of here I'm moving to anywhere where sand is more abundant than snow. Maybe Seheron. Living in a constant war zone seems a small price to pay for warm, dry feet._

A demon's roar and an answering cry of pain off in the distance makes all too clear how ridiculous she is being. The very nightmare of millions has just been made real, and she is whinging about cold toes. Absolutely ridiculous.

Then again, the petty grumbling keeps her mind occupied and keeps her from collapsing into the snow and having a good, hard scream. So it's probably for the best all around if she stays distracted.

It's all a bit much to take in at once, really. Her day began with waking up  _very_  hungry in a dim cell, then getting man-handled into a kneeling position by a couple of  _very_ rude soldiers and coming to the uncomfortable realization that there was something  _very_  wrong with her left hand. She was introduced to Cassandra, then swiftly was accused of blowing up the Conclave (which she hadn't even been aware was in a blown-up state). Oh, the Fade was pouring into the world, demons running amok, and it was all apparently her fault. And _of course_ she couldn't even remember enough to refute it. And the best bit of all: a piece of some magic she didn't recognize was imbedded in her hand and it was  _killing_ her.

All-in-all, Varenya had had better mornings.

Somehow, the day had gotten better as it went on. Being let out of the dungeon did wonders for her mood and being let off-leash to blast demons back to the Fade helped. She'd never really been one for combat, but using her magic…  _that_  she lived for.

Meeting new people had been nice as well, if a bit uncomfortable. Cassandra may hate her for supposedly opening a hole in the sky, but she had let her keep the staff she found, so Varenya assumes she is likely a reasonable enough sort under all that rage and zealotry. The dwarf,  _Varric, I think his name is_  seems friendly enough. And if he's willing to draw Cassandra's ire away from her… all the better.

Solas... Solas is a liar. There was no way he is simply a self-taught apostate, not with his knowledge. Howhad he kept the mark from spreading? Where had he learned to do so? She was the First of her clan and she could only begin to guess what she bore. Where would an untrained apostate learn more? And when he grabbed her wrist… she had sensed an overwhelming power that crackled between the two of them like a summer storm, fierce and wild. The chords of their power had twisted and spiralled together, synchronizing with one another before matching the melody of the rift. What that could mean, what it implied… well, that was a bit complex of a thought for now.  _And seriously, what kind of person kept a name that meant "pride?"_

Despite her reservations, Varenya cannot be too bitter about her situation. The three of her companions are all dedicated to righting the wrong that is the Rifts, and they're all willing to fight to protect her and the mark she bears on the off chance she is able to close them. Solas and Cassandra seem to think the magic of the mark may be able to affect the Breach, so here they are: racing through the valley to the forward camp and the temple.

The song of the rift as they hike up the hillside warns Varenya to grip her staff tighter, to still her center and reach for her magic.  _Calm as still waters, serene as a spring breeze._  Water squelches between her toes and Varenya winces.  _Blasted swamp feet. I swear once we're done here I'm going to curl up in front of a fire until the end of days._  With a sigh and a deep breath Varenya struggles to empty her mind once again, and begins to cast. Her magic comes, sluggish and slow, syrup instead of the liquid lightning she's so accustomed to. She hasn't had this hard a time mastering her mind since she was a teenager, easily distracted by all manner of stupid things. For just a moment, Varenya longs for the feel of weathered ironbark beneath her fingers, polished by over a decade of her caresses, familiar and safe, instead of this rough oak. Her self-chastisement comes just as quickly as her wishes.  _I'm no longer a child, I do not need such crutches._  She slams a door on her wishes, her longing, her frustration, confusion and near-hysteria. There is only the battle and the storm crackling at her fingertips. Soon the demons are nothing but smoldering carcasses and dust, leaving only the rift to master.

This second time connecting to the rift is easier. The first time she barely remembers beyond crackling magic, an incredible pain, and panic. This time she doesn't need Solas to grab her wrist. This time she can feel on her own the way the Rift calls out to her, how it tugs at the mark on her palm. The two magics reach out one another, keening in harmony. Varenya can feel the press of the Fade, the way it weeps into this world through the tear in the Veil. She can feel the edges of the hole, the frayed edges where they've been rent asunder. Without being able to put into words exactly  _what_  she's doing, Varenya reaches for the tattered fabric with the magic within the mark. She weaves the mark's magic, weaves  _herself_ , into it, every ounce of her being thrumming with energy. She pulls the two edges together, tugging and guiding them, until the magics within begin to knit themselves together once again.

Varenya is reminded of lessons with the Keeper about how the body works, of how to guide torn muscles and fractured bone together once again to prompt them to heal.  _The body wants to be whole_  the Keeper had told her.  _It just needs your help to remember the shape it must become._  The process of repairing the Veil is not entirely dissimilar, although this is so much  _easier_  than healing. This magic  _wants_  to flow through her, as smoothly as her breath, as fluid as her blood. The Fade, these Rifts, this mark, are a part of her.

So deeply is this magic within her, so completely has she managed to weave herself into the mending fabric of the Fade, she no longer knows how to extract herself. The fabric of the Veil pulses around her, reknitting itself complete around where she had embeded her essence into the tear. A horrible sense of fear shudders down her spine and reverberates through the Veil. Distantly, she can sense spirits stir, demons awoken by her. They are spiders, and she the fly who plucks at the threads of their webs. She can feel their interest, their hunger. The material of the Fade continues to close around her, syphoning her magic and her very being. She knows that if she cannot extract herself, she will likely be drawn into the Void. Her magic will feed the Veil, and whatever remains of herself will be devoured by demons.

Varenya begins to thrash against the Veil, testing her bindings in earnest, attempting to pull herself free. The demons creep closer, the Veil clings tighter. Panic chokes her, squeezes her lungs and stutters her heart. She can feel her body screaming, but the only sound she hears is the singing of the Fade. She thrashes, tugs, and shakes, but the grip of the Veil does not loosen.  _This is it, this is how it ends_  a part of her whispers, and the rest of her snarls back in rage.  _No, it does NOT! I will not allow it!_  A sudden strength floods her, a magic that tastes unlike anything else she's ever called up before. Varenya wrenches herself from the Veil, sundering her being, leaving small bits of her essence behind in the closed hole, like a hare leaves fur in a slipped trap.

When the echoes of the Rift finally fade and her awareness finally returns to Thedas, Varenya finds her companions staring at her with wide eyes and slack mouths. Varric and Cassandra wear twin expressions of equal parts shock and concern. Solas's is a bit… different. The concern is there in spades, yes, as well as shock. But the frowning wrinkle between his eyes bespeaks consternation and frustration.  _Yeah, you and me both, kinsman._  Varenya is fairly certain next time they encounter a Rift she'll feel the subtle guidance of Solas's magic rather than risk her unravelling again.

Varenya goes to stand. In an instant, Cassandra and Solas are by her side, each grabbing an arm to haul her to her feet. "The Rift is closed." Cassandra calls out to the closed gate before them. "Let us in." There's an answering clank of armored people shuffling atop the wall.

"By the Maker, what happened out there?!" the guards call back as Cassandra steps forward to better speak with them, leaving Varenya to put the bulk of her weight on Solas. "How did that happen?!"

"It was maaaaaaagic." Varenya mumbled beneath her breath and flutters her fingers, her words dripping bitter sarcasm. Solas chokes on a startled chuckle and Varric's head snaps to look at her before a slow grip creeps across his face. Belatedly, Varenya realizes this is only the second time she's spoken in front of the two men. Earlier she had been so determined to contain her nearly hysterical inner monologue she had forgone speaking entirely, communicating instead with nods or the occasional grunt.  _They must think I'm an utter savage. Well, there will be time to remedy that latter, assuming we don't all die horribly first._

Whatever explanation Cassandra shouts at the gate is good enough for them. The wooden doors swing open with the groan of straining wood and the creak of poorly-oiled hinges. Cassandra pulls aside someone who looks to be a messenger, mutters a few words to him, and gestures at a bench for Varenya before going to join a redheaded woman Varenya recognizes from the dungeon.

Varenya collapses onto the bench with an exhausted sigh. Varric settles himself in on the bench beside her, while Solas stands at her right side and watches her as if he's afraid she's going to topple over any second. It's not an unreasonable fear. A soldier who looks to be a scout offers her both a water skin and some kind of jerky. Varenya forces herself to accept them with a small smile and a word of thanks instead of ripping them from his hands as her forgotten hunger roars back to life with a vengeance.

"So," Varric begins, rubbing at a scuff on the stock of his crossbow with feigned nonchalance. "That second Rift was… different."

Varenya forces herself to swallow the jerky instead of speaking around it.  _Not a savage, not a savage._  "Yes, it was." Her answer is just as falsely nonchalant as the dwarf's.

Varric stares down his sights, then adjusts a crank. "Any theories as to why?"

Varenya hesitates, reluctant to reveal Solas's guidance on the first Rift. He had been adamant that  _she_  had closed the Rift fully under her own power, although she knew perfectly well he had quite the hand in it. Perhaps he had a good reason for hiding his level of expertise... And his help had saved her life… "I'm not sure. The first time I acted on instinct." Varenya cuts a significant look at Solas and his eyebrows twitch almost imperceptibly. He knows she's lying for him. Good. "The second time I… dove in, I guess. I tried to understand what I had done. And I got overwhelmed. Stuck. I had a hard time… getting out."

"Well, at least you did. Get out, that is." Varric seems confused by her explanation, but he shrugs his acceptance anyway.

A shouting match between Cassandra, the red-head and a man in Chantry garb interrupts their conversation and steals their attention. The man is by far the loudest of the trio. "I hereby order you to take the prisoner to Val Royeaux to face immediate execution!"

His declaration should worry her, Varenya supposes, but she's too tired to care much. Death would at least be a respite from strange magic and snow. That, and it's difficult to take the man seriously with his red face, and his cheeks puffed out like a petulant child denied the last of the sweet summer berries.

"He's seriously trying to boss around both hands of the Divine! Where the hell is keeping all that authority? Under his fancy little hat?" Varric mutters to Varenya. It may not earn a laugh, but it does prompt a smile.

"You would think they would be more concerned with the giant hole in the sky." Varenya mutters back, tearing off another piece of jerky. She remembers her manners and offers it to both Solas and Varric. Solas declines with a small smile and a shake of his head. Varric happily takes it and chomps down.

"I agree. The Breach is more of a concern than whether or not your head ends up on a pike." Solas comments mildly, eyes fixed on the Chantry man.

"What a pleasant image, Chuckles." Varric glares at the apostate. "Mighty comforting for our companion here."

The two devolve into squabbling; "I meant no offense!" "Yeah, well, whether you not you meant it doesn't matter in the end." Varenya smiles from her place between the two. The arguing is oddly comforting. The sky may be broken open, demons may walk the earth, but there is still time for jokes and petty arguments: moments of normalcy peppered through the ending of the world.  _Yes,_  Varenya thinks to herself, mouth full of jerky and ears full of bickering,  _this day is looking up indeed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter I gave my interpretation of how closing a rift would feel. It's far too simple in the game. Just wave your hand and poof! no more Rift. That doesn't make much sense; it's a complex magic that, even by the time you reach Skyhold, most mages can't even begin to understand. I've decided to make it a bit more complicated.
> 
> As always, reviews are appreciated.


	4. Chapter 4

**III. Cullen**

_**But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,** _

_**Should they set themselves against me.** _

* * *

"The prisoner has woken up."

It's astounding, the damage that three little words can do to someone's day. It hadn't been a good day, by any means, but it had been normal. Well, whatever had stood for normal this past week. Now the world is upside down once again as Leliana tells him Cassandra is interrogating the prisoner. She summarizes Solas's suspicions about the prisoner and the mark she bears. Cullen forces himself to pay attention, although he wants to do nothing more than ignore it and go about his day crafting defense plans.  _I'm not a templar anymore,_ he wants to tell her.  _The mage is_ _ **your**_ _responsibility._  He almost does, too, but Leliana interrupts him by delivering her last bit of news.

"Cassandra is bringing the prisoner here, to the forward camp."

Silence reigns supreme in his mind for a single shocked moment before being overthrown by a multitude of objections. The loudest of them clamor to be spoken.  _That's absolutely ridiculous. Cassandra has gone mad. Bringing a prisoner to the front lines is just asking for trouble. Sod off._  However the only thing he manages to voice is "Wait… what?"

"The prisoner is being brought here. I know it's slightly unorthodox, but Solas believes her mark is the key to closing the Breach. Considering the Breach's pulses have been coming more and more frequently… we must settle it before something terrible happens again."

 _Of course the apostate would be the root of this idea. Bloody mages._  A bit of resentment bubbles into being somewhere within his chest. "This is foolish. We have no way to be certain of the prisoner's loyalty. We can't trust her."

Leliana sighs and rubs her forehead, as if she's dealing with a particularly irksome child. The bubble of resentment continues to grow. "It's past the point where the loyalty of the prisoner matters. The situation cannot get much worse than it already is. While it may be a long-shot, we must try  _something_. It's not as if the prisoner can do more damage at this point."

Cullen wants to yell at her, tell her this is beyond stupid, because no matter how bad something is, magic can  _always_  find a way to make it worse. He bites his tongue instead. He knows Leliana will not appreciate his protests, and indeed, even he wouldn't agree with his own arguments if today was just another day. He'll feel differently about the prisoner when the sun shines brighter and the sky isn't broken and he hasn't spent the previous night suffering from a barrage of unending nightmares. He already knows they don't have a way to stop the Breach; any change the prisoner can offer them at survival, however slim, is greater than what they have now.

"You're right, of course," he admits with a sigh. He massages his temples with his fingertips, trying to beat back his growing headache. "What would you have me do?"

"Hold the valley. Try to drive the demons back. We intend to try for the Temple of Sacred Ashes once the prisoner arrives."

"Fight and fortify. How long do we have to hold?"

"Until we no longer have a reason to, one way or another."

* * *

"Hold, men! Hold!" Cullen calls out as he swings his blade, the steel biting deep into the twisted flesh of a demon. "Don't let them break our line!" The demons have been harrying the front camp since midday in waves, each coming hotter on the heels of the last. Cullen spares a thought for his men defending the Temple proper. He prays they haven't been overrun. He prays that he hasn't ordered them to their deaths, like he has done to so many others. Their bodies lay in neat rows in the camp, wrapped in what linens they can spare. As the days have dragged on, linen has become more and more scarce. The living need bandages more than the dead need shrouds, so many of the corpses lay bare, sightless eyes staring emptily into the broken sky. Each blank face is a reminder, an  _accusation_. He is not fit to lead them. If he was, then the bodies of hundreds wouldn't be stacked up, like so much firewood, waiting to be burnt. If he was fit to lead them, then it would be songs of victory instead of funerary chants that drift through the valley.

But, as ever, now is not the time for such thoughts.

To Cullen's right, a young man, barely old enough to be a recruit, falters. A shade lunges forward, swiping at the boy, trying to bring him down. With a yell and a lunge Cullen pushes the boy aside, taking his place. The demon's claws meet the steel of his blade, screeching with rage. Cullen winces at the creature's scream and pushes back, twisting his sword to bite into the demon's palms. The demon flinches backwards, fleeing the bite of his steel. Cullen takes the opportunity to bring the blade up and to the side, beheading the demon in a single smooth motion.

Cullen turns back to the recruit. He offers a hand to haul the boy to his feet. "Are you alright?" Cullen asks. The lad gapes instead of speaking, his gawking stare locked firmly on something over Cullen's right shoulder. The Commander whips around to face down whatever has stolen the boy's wits and attention so fully.

A woman stands on the edge of a crumbling wall, the sun burning a golden halo around her slim form. Leliana's words from his visit to the prisoner echo in his mind;  _The scouts are claiming they saw a figure behind the prisoner as she tumbled out of the rift. A woman, glowing with golden light. Andraste._  The moment freezes in time, as if held in stasis by it's importance. Dully, as if from afar, Cullen wonders if the world is truly shaking beneath his feet, if time has truly stopped.

A heartbeat later she steps forward, and blocks the sun's glare. Cullen can see her face, now that he's no longer blinded by the light. The figure's shadowed face resolves into tattoos and pointed ears. Not Andraste, the prisoner. For the first time, he can see her face in truth, but he doesn't notice much about her features beyond her pale hair lit aflame by the sun; he's too busy staring at her eyes. Eyes which glow the same unsettling green as the Breach that storms overhead and burn with the same fury.

A snarl twists her lips, eyes flood with disgust. She raises her right hand, her fingers splayed, pointed directly at Cullen. Her lips dance over something, some curse or cry he cannot hear over the rushing in his ears. Wisps of magic whirl down her fingers, roiling and swirling at the tips, coalescing into frost. Cullen can feel the power behind the cloud of ice hanging in the air, the magic straining to erupt from within the woman. And then it isn't straining anymore, it is released. A spear of ice, called into existence by the mage, hurtles through the air towards him.

He struggles to move, to bring up his blade and smack the spear down or to twist to the side and away. Instead of the swift practiced movements he knows, his limbs drag at the rest of him, slowing his movements. He braces himself, expecting the cold sting of ice to bite into his chest. But the bite never comes. Instead, the spear sails safely over his right shoulder, only to bury itself in the maw of a demon which had been lunging forward to swipe at his open back.

The moment shatters around him, and time snaps back to its proper pace, sound flooding his ears. He stumbles as his limbs catch up with the rest of him. He manages to bring up his sword to block as the demon, injured but still alive, howls and jumps at him. He parries a single swipe before lightning strikes the demon and it falls to the ground, it's carcass reeking of seared flesh.

The prisoner leaps from the wall and lands on her feet beside Cullen as he takes a moment to catch his breath. Her eyes, so bright they seem to glow, meet his for a single breath, a single heartbeat. She offers him a single nod, a gesture of respect, before she turns away, her staff spinning end-over-end in her deft hands. The battle-cadence returns then, drumming away within his chest, and he returns to the dirty work of killing.

With the addition of the prisoner and her team, it's scant minutes before the demons die. The rift overhead shrieks and dissolves into amorphous ribbons as Cullen collects his troops. They have a moment to rest, to regroup, and to have the dead collected by Chantry sisters. His turns to a lieutenant, about to issue orders, when a shift in the magic of the rift overwhelms his templar-trained senses, feeling like nothing else but a punch in the gut. He doubles over as a headache explodes within his skull and his senses  _scream_. A few deep breaths later, he manages to look up.

The prisoner stands before the rift, her left hand outstretched. Threads of viridian light pulse and dance between her palm and the rift. Beneath her thin sleeve the same light burns along her veins, before vanishing beneath the thick leather of her vest. Her lips fall open, slack, echoing the empty expression in her eyes. The light pulses and whirs, the rift screams and sings, until life returns to her form in a rush. Her eyes narrow and her lips snarl, just as they had before she launched that ice spear, as if she's still in battle. Her left hand clenches in a fist and she wrenches it to the side. The leash of light that had tied her palm to the rift snaps, and with an ear-shattering blast the rift slams shut, vanishing, as if it were never there at all.

Cullen distantly takes note of the way Cassandra, Solas and Varric all rush to her side, as if expecting her to tip over and the way the prisoner smiles wanly at them and steps away from their supporting hands, but notices little else. Most of his thought power is occupied with preventing hyperventilation.  _Slow, deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Maker's breath, she damn well did it! 1...2...3...4… She's either Maker-sent or she made the rifts herself. Not sure I like either possibility. In...2...3...4...Out...2...3...4._  Cassandra catches his eye and starts to approach.  _Maker, Cullen. Pull it together. There will be time to have an crisis later._

Cassandra outlines a vague plan. They wish to rally the troops remaining at the forward camp and charge forward. She echoes Leliana from earlier: they must get the prisoner to the Temple of Sacred Ashes; nothing else matters now. Their survival rests on a couple of unstable theories and fickle hopes.  _Excellent. Just wonderful. I always wanted to die young._  A piece of him more reasonable and mature than the remainder metaphorically smacks the rest of him upside the metaphorical head.  _Being bitter won't solve anything. Buck up and get that mage to the Breach. A faint hope is better than none at all. You know this._

The mage herself steps forward, leaving Solas's hovering hands and Varric's anxious smile behind her. Her eyes have yet to lose the unusual light, the impossible coloring. Cullen is left wondering if they could possibly be natural. Such a color  _must_  be a result of magic, right? The soft burrs and rounded vowels of the prisoner's accent distract him from his contemplation about the origins of such an odd coloring and draw him back into the conversation. "You are going to be leading the charge?"

"Yes, I am." Cullen snaps back into his Commander role, back straight and expression downright cold. "And you're the one capable of closing rifts. I hope they're right about you. We've lost a lot of people getting you here." His bitterness is all too obvious.

The prisoner's face immediately goes blank, the flicker of friendliness in the curve of her lips guttering out and dying. Her gaze bores into Cullen's, and he resists the urge to fidget under its weight. "I hope they're right, too." Her voice is controlled, and perfectly expressionless. A bit of regret stabs at him; if she's truly an innocent in all this then she's done nothing to deserve his cruelty. He dismisses the regret just as quickly as it came; if she proves herself, there will be plenty of time to apologize later.

She turns away, goes to leave. Cullen is struck with a sudden thought. This woman is willing to risk her life for the chance of closing the rift, and he knows nothing about her other than the fact she's been held prisoner by his people. If she dies, there will be no time for apologies. He'll be unable to thank her, to honor her sacrifice. He doesn't even know her name. "Wait," he speaks before he even knows he's going to ask. When her stare pins on him he fights down the surge of embarrassment and forges onward with his question. "What's your name?"

The elf freezes, her shoulders going tense and her mouth falling open. He's surprised her. Her mouth closes and opens again, once, twice, before managing to make her voice work. "Varenya. Varenya of clan Lavellan."

"Varenya, then." His words are soft, gentler than anything he's said to her before. "May you make it to the Breach. Maker guide your steps." Her eyes widen even further and she nods quickly,  _nervously?_  before turning away from him and pointing herself towards the Temple, and the Breach within.

* * *

Half an hour later finds Cullen amidst the corpses of demons, recovering from the charge towards the Temple. As Cullen wipes the blood from his blade he finds his mind drifting back to the prisoner.  _Varenya,_  he reminds himself.  _Her name is Varenya_. Her appearance is… not what he is used to. She is distinct. Striking. His mother had used that word occasionally, when she was being too polite to call someone ugly. That's not what he means by the word. She's not ugly, just like she's not typically beautiful. There's just no other word he knows to describe her.

Everything about her face is just…  _too much._  Her eyes are too intense to for him to be comfortable under her scrutiny. Her skin is too pale, it's nearly colorless, her lips a bloody contrast. . Her features are all sharp: sharp ears; sharp jawline; high, sharp cheekbones. One would almost fear to cut himself on them. Every expression, every movement, radiates precision. And her personality seems to match. She was cool, composed even in the face of extermination. Demons diving at her face did not faze her, she only snarled back at them and blasted them away. Even Cullen's casual cruelty hadn't tripped her up. The only time she had hesitated, the only time she had faltered, was when he had asked her a simple question. When he had asked her her name. When he had wished her luck.

His lieutenant clears her throat, grabbing at Cullen's attention. His troops stare at him, waiting for his orders. He gives the hasty order to move out, even as he feels his cheeks threatening to pink. He busies himself with sheathing his blade and tightening his gauntlets to hide the rising color. Maker help him, he's been caught daydreaming during the apocalypse.  _Now is not the time_ , he reminds himself sternly, even though he knows it's a lost cause. He typically can master his thoughts, but sometimes there's just no helping it. And it happens all too often because of trouble-making, pretty mages.

 _I'm in trouble,_  the wise, mature part of him acknowledges wryly, thinking of green eyes and sharp gazes. The rest of him slams an iron-clad door on that thought, locking it up tight, and marches off to battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sidenote: I imagine Varenya's accent as a mix between Welsh (like Merril's) and Scottish (like Sebastian). An odd mix, to be sure.


	5. Cullen 3

IV. Cullen

_**The first of the Maker's children watched across the Veil** _

_**And grew jealous of the life** _

_**They could not feel, could not touch.** _

_**In blackest envy were the demons born.** _

* * *

 

Wave after wave of demons break themselves against the soldiers’ wall of blades. The troops are fighting well, but a full day of battles is taking its toll on them; their strength is beginning to wane. We cannot take much more of this. Cullen ducks beneath the swipe of a demon’s claws to bury his sword to the hilt in its abdomen. If the prisoner doesn’t succeed soon…

A staggering pulse of magic crushes Cullen, driving him to his knees. Panic strikes him as he fights against his locked knees and struggles for breath. Nononono. Can’t fall over on a battlefield! That’s just asking for the demons to take a chunk out of me. He lets out a frustrated cry as he strives to make it to his feet. He curses himself as his feet threaten to give out from under him and his head swims in magic. If I had kept up with my templar training this wouldn’t be happening, the magic wouldn’t overwhelm me. If I had more lyrium… A second pulse ripples through the cold air, just as strong as before. Magic crashes over him, crushing the very breath from his lungs. It pours down his throat and fills his pores, crackling with a fierce energy. The magic sings within him, the sky weeps above them.

The demons begin to scream in harmony with the Breach, howling with unholy rage and hunger as the Fade reaches out to them, pulling them back into its embrace. Their unnatural forms twist and warp, some disintegrating as their essence gets pulled back across the Veil. The stronger of the monsters retain their grip on the mortal world. They lash out in rage and fear, desperate to avoid the inevitable beckoning of the Fade.

The eerie song of the Breach swells to a crescendo. Cullen barely retains his grip on his swords as his palms itch to cover his ears in the vain hope of blocking out the overwhelming noise.

The moment shatters with a thunderous crack and a blinding light. An explosion from somewhere within the temple shakes the earth, the shock wave knocking Cullen flat on his face. A dull ache spreads from where his forehead struck the ground, sharp chunks of gravel bite into his cheek. His ears ringing, eyes blind and head swimming, he struggles to recover the breath knocked from him. That was either a really good sign, or a really bad one. He scrambles to his feet, blinking rapidly, trying to clear his sight of bright patches and swarming black dots. Now to find out which.

The echoes of the Breach bleed away, leaving a heavy silence behind. Cullen looks to the sky where the Breach remains. Disappointment wells up within him, heavy in his gut and bitter on the side of his tongue.

“Commander!” His lieutenant calls out as she picks herself up. “What’s happened?”

Now that’s a good question. The demons are gone, and the strange song of the Breach is muted, its light dimmed. He reaches out with his templar-honed senses towards the Breach. The Veil is stretched thin, practically bursting with the weight of the Fade pressing up against it. But the Veil is there, the hole patched. We did it. The mage did it. The words rattle about the inside of his skull, all other thoughts stunned into silence. The Breach is sealed. For now, at least. I doubt it will last. “The hole in the Veil is gone! We’ve done it!”

Silence hangs over the shattered courtyard as his soldiers scramble to their feet, processing his declaration. A few muted murmurs race around the group, before evolving into excited speaking. A single victorious shout catches others in its tide, and together they swell, breaking into a fervent cheer. Their pride shakes the cobblestones. Cullen does not join in their celebration; the others haven’t emerged from the temple yet.

Cullen runs for the temple, gravel slipping beneath his boots. “Seeker Pentaghast?” Cullen’s voice echoes in the emptiness as he stumbles down the corridor. The only response to his calls is the pulse and whine of red lyrium. “Cassandra? Leliana? Varric?” The silence is suffocating, “Varenya?”

He emerges from the corridor and into the temple proper. Bodies lay in the hall, scattered and bleeding, the smell of charred flesh choking the air. Cullen raises a shaking hand to cover his nose and mouth as he scans the bodies, until he sees a familiar suit of armor.

“Cassandra!” He scrambles down the ruined slope from the corridor to the courtyard, a small avalanche of pebbles coming loose from his clumsy steps. The Seeker lays face-down against the soot-stained stone, unmoving. Cullen turns her over on to her back, praying and cursing all at once, hoping she yet lives. The woman coughs and winces, grabbing at her ribs as she drags herself into a sitting position.

“...Age,” Cassandra manages to rasp out, squinting at Cullen.

“What?”

“Where is the mage?”

Cullen whips around, scanning the hall for their allies. The once prone forms littering the courtyard begin to stir. A great many begin to pick themselves up, groaning and grabbing at their heads or chests. An equal number remain still, smoke still curling off their bodies or bloodstains still blossoming around them. Cullen allows himself a sigh of relief when he catches a glimpse of familiar red hair standing and hears a familiar dwarven voice rattling off a barrage of curses.

He finally spots a head of white-gold hair and a slight body slumped over crumpled knees. All of the raging voices within, both of relief and of fear, go silent as he stares at the unmoving body, still as a corpse. No. She can’t be dead already. No blood pools beneath her, no char marks betray strikes of lightning. She’s not dead. Can’t be dead. Cullen approaches the limp form, his chest aching with held breath. The Breach isn’t gone yet. We still need her; she can’t be dead.

With trembling fingers Cullen grips the mage’s shoulder. Her head lolls lifelessly to the side. The balance of the body disrupted, she begins to fall over. He roughly catches the body against cold gauntlets, and yet the mage doesn’t stir.

Dead. No. Can’t be. Dead. Dead. Dead. His breath comes shorter, the sides of his neck aching with a held-back cry. After all that trouble, all the blood and all the dying, we’ve failed. Again and again, we’ve failed. This is the end. Their one hope for truly closing the Breach lies empty in his arms. It’s only a matter of time before that thing opens again. The immensity of the moment rises above him, the depth of their failure threatening to drown him. His stomach churns and his throat burns as he feels the need to retch. He wrestles against the heaving in his gut as a small voice of rationality fights to make itself heard. No. I can’t stop now. There are wounded. We need a new plan. There is no time to come undone. The world is ending all over again and they will need every last second they can get in order to prepare. He hunches over the still body and closes his eyes, teeth grit, and wills himself to emptiness.

The brush of something vibrant against the edges of his senses sends prickles dancing down his spine. Surprise jolts him from his reverie. What was that? He holds his breath, waiting, but the sensation doesn’t come again. Bitterly he sinks back to despair, again throwing all thought away. The pulse comes again, reverberating through his blood and breath. Again! I know I did not imagine it. He concentrates on stilling his center and spreading his senses outwards, straining to find that sensation again. It comes again, the faintest pulse of magic, from within his arms.

If she’s dead there can’t be magic… But there is… Cullen tears at his gauntlet’s buckles with both teeth and clumsy fingers. He tosses the armor over his shoulder with a heedless clatter, tears the leather glove beneath off his hand with as little care. He lays trembling fingers against the hollow where the mage’s jaw meets her neck and leans so his cheek is in front of the mage’s open lips. Come on, come on, come on… The whisper of a heartbeat finds his seeking fingertips, and a weak puff of breath drifts across his cheek. Everything within him goes still, silent, until the second one confirms the impossible.

“Alive,” he whispers, as if to assure himself that this moment is real, to prove that it won’t shatter into delirium. “The mage is alive!” he manages to yell. Whispers instantaneously burst into being from the soldiers. They proclaim her a miracle. Cullen is inclined to agree.

Leliana crouches across from Cullen, blocking mage from awestruck stares. She checks the mage’s heartbeat, lays the back of her hand against the other woman’s brow. “She is alive, but maybe not for long. We must get her to Haven immediately.”

Cullen hesitates as his gaze falls on fallen bodies. They died or are dying on my orders. I should be here, with them. I owe them at least that much. But the magic in his arms is unique, and its bearer can still be saved. Protecting the Mark and the woman who comes with it matters more than saving even a hundred wounded soldiers, no matter how heartless it sounds. Once the mage is safe there will be time to mourn the soldiers.

He slides one arm beneath the elven woman’s folded knees, the other behind her back and stands, barking orders as he does so. “You, there,” he nods at a man in messenger’s armor who seems to be largely uninjured. “We need a horse. Run, find us one and return with it immediately. We will begin walking towards Haven along the main road, you’ll find us there. You,” he orders another scout. “You will run to Haven. Tell them we need healers. Have at least one remain there for the mage. The rest are to come here, immediately. The rest of you, begin moving those who can be moved to the forward camp. Save those who you can.”

Leliana lays a hand on Cullen’s shoulder, drawing his attention. “We should avoid exposing the prisoner to new people. We can’t be certain of their reactions.” Her voice is almost inaudible, her eyes cast over the scurrying troops with ill-concealed suspicion.

Her suspicion puts him on edge. “What do you suppose we do then? Hide her in a cave and pray?” Cullen hisses back.

“Of course not, don’t be ridiculous.” Her hand moves to between his shoulders and pushes, guiding him towards the temple exit. “Adan, the apothecary, already knows about her. He treated her while she was in the cells, and he’ll treat her now.”

A handful of protests wait on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows them down. He just hopes Leliana’s confidence isn’t misplaced.

* * *

 

“I’m not a healer! I really don’t know what you expect me to do!” The alchemist crosses his arms and scowls at Cassandra. She scowls right back.

“I expect you to do something beyond yelling at us!”

“I’ve already told you people, I’m an alchemist…”

Cassandra interrupts Adan with a hand wave and a growl. “Who knows more about healing than any of us do. Now, take a look at her!”

Adan sneers back at the Seeker, and for a moment Cullen almost thinks he’s going to refuse. The defiant expression drops off his face when Cassandra brushes her fingertips against the pommel of her sword and narrows her eyes to slits. “Fine! But I’m warning you now, I don’t do miracles.” The man turns his back on them and begins rifling through the rather extensive collection of bottles he brought with him. “Now, Seeker, if you’re done glaring at me I could use your help getting the patient out of her jacket. I need to check for wounds.”

Cullen steps into the hall of the hut to give the alchemist room and studies the wood grain of the wall to give the mage privacy. Cassandra and Adan half-heartedly curse at one another as they work together, Adan examining the mage and Cassandra fetching things from his bag. Cullen’s thoughts grow fuzzy and begin to drift, settling on their wounded and their fallen. A band squeezes his heart and his breath goes short. The edges of his vision darkens as his thoughts chase one another round and round. How many are wounded? I should be there, helping. How many dead? Have relief efforts been organized? I should be there, I should be there, I should be there.

The door swings open, letting in a blast of twilight-chilled air as well as visitors. The sight of the red-headed spymaster is a welcome one. The sight of the red-faced man at her heels is not. Nor is his whining. “You have no authority to issue orders to Chantry forces. Until representatives are sent from Val Royeaux they are under the command of the…”

Leliana simply rolls her eyes and ignores the ranting man behind her. “Cullen, Cassandra. Adan. How is she?”

The apothecary doesn’t bother looking away from his patient. “As far as I can tell, she’s in excellent health, other than being unresponsive and some impressive bruising coming in on her torso.”

Leliana mutters something flowing and syballint in Orlesian. Cullen is moderately certain it’s a curse. “She’s still unresponsive?”

“What? What’s all this?!” Chancellor Roderick loudly demands, trying to shove past the spymaster. He is unsuccessful.

Adan turns around. A vein in his temple throbs at the Chancellor’s interruption. “You said she’s a mage? It could be mana-exhaustion. She may have drained her reserves. If so, she won’t wake until they’re recovered.” He collapses into a waiting chair beside the window and the bed.

Roderick’s eyes bulge as he catches sight of the unconscious figure on the bed. His mouth gapes like that of a fish as the red that had previously been confined to his ears and nose begins to overtake the rest of his face. We should have known better than to let him in here. “This is insane! You’re keeping the murderer here? She should face justice for the Conclave!” Adan drops his head into his hands as the Chancellor’s voice raises.

“And she will, if she actually killed the Divine.” Cassandra comes to stand at Leliana’s side, forming quite the intimidating wall in front of the Chancellor. Her voice is just a shade quieter than the man’s.

“You can’t actually believe the elf is innocent!” The alchemist’s hands begin to shake, the veins standing out starkly.

“Apparently, Chancellor, I can.”

The apothecary has had enough. He surges to his feet, glaring daggers at Roderick, Cassandra and Leliana all. “Alright, that’s enough. If you can’t be quiet then leave.” Adan points a commanding finger at the door, fearless even in the face of Leliana’s narrowing eyes. Cullen can’t deny being impressed. “Your yelling isn’t going to make her heal any faster.”

Leliana’s lip twist to the side, brows pulled low, but she eventually nods instead of turning her ire on the man. “Of course. Come now, Roderick. We’ll continue this in the Chantry.” Leliana turns on her heel and strides out of the hut, Roderick spitting protests at her back as he follows. Cassandra simply rolls her eyes and strolls out, letting the door slam shut behind her.

Adan turns back to working on the mage. Cullen hovers awkwardly in the doorway. He should follow Leliana, help her run damage control with the chancellor. Or he should track down Cassandra and help her organize the troops in the aftermath of the Breach being closed. He should get out of Adan’s way. But the moment he steps outside of this hut a thousand pair of eyes will look to him, a thousand mouth will ask for explanations. A thousand lives will once again be put in his hands, and all he wants to do is not deal with that.

“Either get out or stop staring and help me,” Adan snaps out in his terse way. Cullen casts one last look at the door, It’s not as if I’ll be here much longer. I’ll be back at work soon enough, and jumps to do the apothecary's bidding.

* * *

 

Dawn finds Cullen keeping vigil at the mage’s bedside. He tried to leave many times in the night. At least half a dozen times he forced himself out of his rickety chair and made it to the door before turning around and throwing himself back into the chair. I’m a coward. It isn’t selflessness that keeps him here. He has no great concern for the mage, he does not fear for her life. He has no reason to sit by her sleeping side. His vigil is not for her, but rather serves as an excuse for himself. He is hiding. Such a giant bleeding coward.

The inside of the hut is warm, a fire blazing merrily in the brazier. The scent of apples lingers from the drink an elven servant had brought him, mixing with the astringent scent of elfroot from the poultice smeared on the mage’s bruised ribs. The smell is not unlike that of the templar training barracks he spent his teenage years in. It’s a comfortable scent, a safe scent. If Cullen closes his eyes he can pretend he’s back there, one out of dozens of faceless recruits. Back where making a mistake meant a week scrubbing pots in the kitchens, instead of dozens of empty deaths.

Within the hut, Cullen can lie to himself. He can pretend he’s just one soldier out of an army. He can tell himself he’s unimportant, and his choices mean little to nothing. The moment he steps outside, the fantasy ends. He will have to return to being Commander, and assume all the responsibility the title implies. Deaths upon deaths, each and every one a consequence of his miserable leadership.

He did not leave the hut in the night. He did not sleep. Instead he has spent the night staring out the window, watching the stars slowly fade as the new day approaches. He watches even as the first beams of sunlight cut through the coiled clouds surrounding the Breach and paints them with shades of gold. The dawn’s light refracts within the green nexus, throwing fractured rainbows against the clouds. The magnificence of it sickens him.

The Sisters say the Maker’s hand is evident in a sunrise. “Gaze upon the vibrant colors, feel the dawning warmth. Does your heart not sing with its majesty?” Cullen has spent countless mornings watching the sun rise. He has sung the Chant to welcome the beginning of the day. In every sunrise he has known the glory of the Maker in the gentle warmth of the dawn, his heart soaring with the profound purity of it all.

He feels no such warmth now. His heart lies still within his chest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lore issues: I’ve expanded templar abilities a bit for this fanfic. The full extent of what they can do is never stated; but we do know they can inhibit the use of magic and “cleanse” areas of it. Thus, it would make sense that they can sense magic and its use as well, otherwise, how would they know to use smite?
> 
> A small thing: In DA:I it’s said that Adan is the closest thing they have to a healer in Haven. That seems pretty ridiculous for a place where an army is stationed. Even if they didn’t have mages, they should have had doctors. It’s such a small detail, but it’s always bothered me a whole bunch. What kind of idiots have an army without medical help? Seriously…


	6. Cullen 4

* * *

Cullen keeps his head bowed and chews his meal slowly, his face hidden behind a raised hand.  _I'm not hiding_ , he reassures himself.  _Not hiding. Why would I be hiding? I've nothing to hide from._  He takes a surreptitious glance about the dining hall, searching for pointed ears and pale golden hair. He relaxes when he sees none.  _I'm just… taking a moment for myself. A short break._  An all-too familiar voice full of odd burrs and lilting vowels enters the main hall and the Commander sinks lower in his seat, hunching his shoulders inwards. The fur lining his cloak tickles his cheeks and as he curses himself for wearing something so conspicuous.

Cullen whiles away a few agonizing minutes waiting for the owner of the voice to just  _leave_  as he plays with his food. He builds mounds the mashed parsnips up, until the mass resembles the nearby mountain peaks, a deep trench carved between them. Each chunk of mutton becomes a battalion of friendly soldiers, each pea a squad of evil forces. The mutton warriors lie in wait high in the mountains for the nefarious peas invaders to come through Parsnip Pass. Once their foes are within the pass, they fall upon the dreaded peas, decimating their forces from the flanks. Their brutal and bloody war soon spreads across his plate. He becomes absorbed with helping the forces of Muttony Justice vanquish the forces of Vegetable Evil, so much so that he fails to notice the approach of an elven woman.

Soft footfalls stop in front of his seat. He freezes at the sight of boots on the other side of the table. He tries not to wince as the chair across from him clatters against the stone flooring, and the elf takes her seat.

"Good evening, Commander," she chirps, her voice bright and cheery.

Cullen wrestles with the grimace twisting at his lips. "Herald." Keeping a cordial expression is a rather more difficult task than it should be, but he can't help it: the mage has the worrying ability to bring out the petulant teenager in him.

The elven woman grimaces at something and takes a moment to poke at the meat on her plate. Silence, blessed silence, hangs over the table. It's a little uncomfortable, a little stifling, but it's better than the alternative. Cullen's past few days, ever since the mage woke up, have been positively filled with the mage's accented prying. She had started out innocently enough: with a query here and there about the Chantry or the Mage-Templar conflict. Small, context-relevant questions with easy answers. But as the days stretched on, her curiosity became harder and harder to satisfy.

She began asking questions about anything and everything. Was Haven considered to be in Orlais, or was it Ferelden? What did he look for in recruits? What did the Chant say about elves? Before long he couldn't turn a bloody corner without running into her and a mouthful of her ready questions.

She was insatiable, voracious. And Cullen was sick of it.

The Herald stops fidgeting as much across from him. Her expression quiets and grows pensive. Her lips part and a wave of exasperation rises in him. He knows, just  _knows,_  she's going to start asking questions  _Always, always with the questions._  He cuts her off before she can begin, hoping to derail her with a query of his own.

"Herald, why are you sitting here with me? I'm sure Josephine or Leliana would like to have the chance to ask you a few questions, and answer a few of your own in return."

The elf breaks off whatever she had been about to say, her eyes startled wide by his interruption. "I've spoken with Sister Leliana a few times. She suggested that you would be the best person to answer my questions."

"Oh?"

"She said you wouldn't mind, and that you were the best equipped with answers."

"Did she now."

* * *

The door makes a rather satisfying bang as Cullen slams it open. The noise is enough to take the edge off his swelling anger. Leliana doesn't even bother to jump at his intrusion. A bit of him resents her unshakable calm and fans the flames of his anger, driving them even higher than before.

"We need to talk," he growls out.

"What of?" Her reply is utterly unhurried and nonchalant. It only serves to make him angrier.

"The Herald," he grits out from between clenched teeth. His jaw creaks.

"What about her?"

Cullen takes a few deep breaths, reaching for the calm that seems so determined to escape him. "She's gotten the idea in her head that it's okay for her to follow me around everywhere. And she seems to have gotten this idea from you."

Leliana flips through a couple of papers on her desk distractedly. "I did tell her she should go to you if she had any questions, yes."

Leliana's instant and honest answer startles him into a few moments of silence. He has become accustomed to having to drag every last unimportant answer out of the woman. She hoards information greedily and rarely offers it up so freely. "Why?"

"She has a lot of questions. I thought you may be able to answer them."

_Ah. So perhaps she's not being so free after all_. "I know better than to believe that line, Leliana."

"It's not a lie."

"It's not all of the truth, either."

"No."

"So?"

"So, you're still our best option for answering questions."

"No, I'm really not." Cullen can't help but scoff at his colleague. "There's plenty of people in Haven better suited to teaching and with far less to do than I. Chantry sisters, for example."

"Fair enough," Leliana concedes grudgingly. "However, you're our best option for our purpose."

"Alright, I'll bite. What purpose?"

"To keep her with us. We need the Herald, and badly. Beyond that, we need her to  _think_  that we trust her. At the very least, we need her to close the Rifts. Beyond that, we can use her as a figurehead. If she thinks we're hostile towards her, we lose an incredibly valuable resource. She has to like us, to want to work with us. Which is why we've been humoring her. We have answered her questions, kept her movements fairly unrestricted, and allowed her to speak with Solas and Varric."

"And where do I fit in in all this?" Cullen questions, still dissatisfied.

"We still must keep her as isolated as we can manage. It keeps her from giving away secrets and keeps those who may wish to harm her away. But, again, we can't let her know we're trying to isolate her. We have to make it seem like its her own choice. If she thinks she can get everything she wants out of a few select people and us, then she has no reason to interact with others. Which is where you come in. If you keep answering her questions, keep her entertained, she will have no need to go to others."

"I still don't see why it has to be me to watch over her."

"We need her primary attachments to be people we can trust, and those are in precious short supply. The only people whose loyalty I'm certain of are myself, Josephine, Cassandra, and you. I can't watch over her, obviously. We can't have her privy to our deepest secrets.

"Likewise, many of the negotiations Josi is dealing with are of a secretive nature; our possible allies don't yet want to risk being associated with us. A spy getting ahold of our correspondences could scare away all potential allies. Additionally, Josi has to actually meet with diplomats. She can't have the Herald following at her heels like a lost dog.

"Cassandra has been occupied meeting with Chantry representatives in an attempt to sway them to our side; flaunting the presence of a heretic in front of them would do little to endear us to them. You have the most flexible schedule, deal with the least sensitive information, and are not in danger of causing a diplomatic nightmare. It's only logical that she be assigned to you." Leliana cast a knowing smirk in Cullen's direction, managing to pack a whole host of implications into a simple bow of the lips. "Besides, she seems to like you."

"I deal with plenty of privileged information!" Cullen shoots back. He tries to keep calm, but he can't help but take offense.  _Am I that useless?_ "What about our troop movements?"

Leliana scoffs, waves a hand in dismissal. "Oh, please, Cullen. Everyone already knows where are troops are; we can't hide entire armies in other nations without people noticing."

Cullen does his best not to sputter. "That's besides the point! I can't get anything done with her tagging along after me."

"Oh, come now, Cullen," she coaxes. "Surely the Herald isn't that bad."

"She never,  _never_ , stops asking questions! It's incessant!"

"I'm sure she's not doing any harm. She's just… inquisitive!"

Cullen continues to argue with the fierce redhead. He knows she won't budge, and that she'll either talk him over or browbeat him to her side. He still fights, refuses to back down. Sometimes a situation is hopeless, and all you have is the principle of the matter.

* * *

It is with a head full of unpleasant thoughts and a snarl that Cullen barricades himself in his office, determined to get something useful done today. He finds it difficult to focus, distracted as he is by his discussion with the spymaster.  _Not hiding_  he reminds himself.  _Not hiding._

Leliana managed to extract a promise from him before he stormed off: he will allow the Herald to natter at him, and try not to scare her off. His promise has no bearing on how he feels about the situation, however. He still believes this is a terrible idea, and made sure Leliana knows it.

There are plenty of reasons why Cullen is angry over getting shunted into Herald-watching. Firstly, and least importantly, is a matter of pride. He's the Maker-blessed Commander of an army; it's damned insulting that he has to play babysitter. That complaint hadn't held up long under Leliana's arguments for the importance of a trustworthy watcher. Secondly, as he told Leliana at length, the Herald is incredibly annoying. She possesses the unique ability to simultaneously be both infuriatingly quiet, saying little, yet at the same time saying all too much. It's likely because she only ever takes; she constantly asks questions, yet never offers up information about herself. She pokes and prods and pries, yet offers little to explain her motivations for her questioning. It's more than simply annoying: it's suspicious. Why not speak of herself if she isn't hiding something? She isn't trustworthy, and he's reminded of it every time she opens her mouth.

There are too many unknowns about the mage. She still claims ignorance about how the Breach opened, and she's maintained that she has no memory of what happened in the Fade. She hasn't volunteered what she was even doing at the Conclave. It makes Cullen nervous to have someone so obviously dangerous and so opaque about their motivations at his back. If he's not careful, he's sure to find a knife stuck in it. However, in the end, his largest objection lies with himself.

Cullen knows himself well enough to recognize the dangers in spending too much time with the mage. He had always been prone to developing unfortunate senses of loyalty for those he shouldn't.

It had begun as early as templar training. Cullen had attached himself to a couple of older recruits who couldn't have given half a damn about the obnoxious youngster following at their heels. He had his reasons, of course, for his loyalty, but they all essentially boiled down to them guiding him about in his first week of training. His devotion to them persisted for many years, despite them treating him as less a peer and more an errand boy. It only died out when all three of them were ejected from templar training for what their instructors called "an abuse of power." It was such a simple, innocuous phrase for the horrors they had visited upon the poor young man. Cullen had never found out what had happened to their victim. Something told him he would probably be better off not knowing.

The Circle tower at Kinloch Hold was an incredible tangle of challenged allegiance and confused morality. There was Ser Greagoir, who Cullen was sworn to follow. The man, being the Knight-Commander, was supposed to be the pinnacle of justice in the Tower, an instrument of the Maker himself. But Cullen soon found that Greagoir was willing enough to turn a blind eye to all too much if done by the templars, and would permit all too little if done by the mages. Is that what justice was? Letting men in armor scare teenagers into becoming blood mages? He likely would never have questioned Greagoir's orders if his devotion hadn't been compromised by a certain apprentice. She had earned his allegiance in, quite frankly, an embarrassingly short period of time with absolutely no effort: barely a smile and a couple questions. No, it hadn't been her fault; it was entirely the fault of Cullen's own flighty sense of fealty.

Meredith had been another Knight-Commander of his with a harsh way of governing. Cullen was not… himself following the fall of the Ferelden Circle. He was bitter, angry, and not a little bit fearful of the people, the  _creatures_ , who had so easily destroyed his life and danced gleefully amongst the ashes. He hated mages then. He needed someone to hate, and they made it oh-so  _easy_  in Kirkwall, with abominations on the loose, Tevinter bloodmages skulking about in Darktown and the hair-thin Veil hanging over it all. There was so much evil, and Meredith promised to cleanse it. She had taken him in, accepted him, soothed away the fears of Kinloch Hold and replaced it all with a brilliant sense of righteousness. It pervaded everything, touched everything. His actions hunting abominations were  _righteous_. His methods for finding bloodmages may have been harsh, but it was justified because the cause was  _righteous._  Every week more and more mages were found after hanging themselves from rafters. Every week another mage disappeared in the night and a Tranquil took their place. Every week the mages' despair became more and more palpable, until it was so thick he could nearly  _taste_ it, but it was all okay because Meredith said so, and everything she touched was, indeed, righteous. He had doubts in the many years he served as Meredith's Knight-Captain, but they were tiny things, and easily brushed aside. Except, of course, when the doubts concerned a certain Champion mage.

Cullen had known Hawke was an apostate for years. Maker's bones, he had seen her cast spells the very first time he met her! But she had helped him that day without expecting a reward, or acknowledgement. He couldn't just turn away from her after that, not when she had practically saved his life. So he kept his mouths shut as Meredith raged and despaired of ever finding enough evidence to haul Hawke off to the Gallows. He kept his silence and let her run roughshod all over Kirkwall. And look at how that ended up: with an exploded Chantry and a mage rebellion

His history of failing at his duty thanks to pretty, charming mages is a significant part of why Cullen doesn't wish to watch the Herald. She has the mage part down flat, and she's charming enough when she isn't determinedly talking his ear off. If he has to continue playing nursemaid, he may become accustomed to her questioning, perhaps find her charming. Maybe even likeable. And if he comes to like her, he'll let her get away with anything.  _Maker, I'm a rubbish templar._

Lelina says they need to keep the Herald close, so they can use and control her. Cullen isn't like Leliana and Josephine; he isn't able to wear masks so well he becomes them. He isn't strong like Cassandra, firm and certain in her beliefs. No, he is beset on all sides by doubts. They harry him, bring him low, until he is no longer certain who holds the truth.

He cannot trust his fealty to lie in a deserving place. He has an abysmal track record when it comes to his superiors and mages both. He has followed those who did not deserve his allegiance. He has allowed mages to disrupt him carrying out his duty. All in the name of loyalty. How can he trust himself to make the right decisions now if he couldn't before? How is what they've been building in Haven different from the Chantry he once so blindly served?

He cannot afford to forget who he is, who he must be, for the good of the Inquisition. He cannot be gentle; he cannot be lenient.

He is altogether too weak to play this game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whooo! Finally got a chapter out. This a short one; the second half will be coming a few days.
> 
> I'm very, very, very sorry this took me so long to update. I've been struggling with depression these past few months, as well as getting hit with a bunch of bad news, and its made writing extremely difficult. I didn't mean to abandon this story, and I sincerely apologize for doing so. Thankfully, I've been feeling better overall recently, so my updates should become more frequent. Not going to lie, though, I could really use some encouragement right about now.
> 
> Notes on the chapter: We get a whole bunch of Cullen angst in this chapter. He has yet to settle into his position as Commander and loosen up a bit. It makes the story move slow, but I felt it was important in order to set up Cullen as a character. Next chapter is going to be much lighter; there's going to be Varenya and her particular brand of strange.
> 
> Cullen is extremely harsh with himself. He holds himself to a superhuman standard; it's natural to have doubts from time to time, or to have one's loyalty shaken. He, however, takes it as evidence that there is something wrong, either with him or his belief system, which then only makes his faith more unstable. He's such a perfectionist/overachiever that any road bump is, in his mind, signs of a disaster.


End file.
